Last Wednesday we headed to the fortnightly oncologist meeting, expecting results from the intermediate CT scan. In my head I had readied myself for crappy news, namely there has been no impact from the chemotherapy, and all the masses had continued to grow. Happily, my natural pessimism proved misguided, and we actually got slightly better news. The scan results showed that some of the masses had shrunk, some had stabilised, and a few had fractionally grown. OK, not the crappiest of outcomes, not the best of outcomes. The other news of note was from that day's blood work: a marker on my liver had spiked, and as such the dosage of one of the drugs for the next cycle was reduced by 50%. I had to confess to the oncologist that a week of eating and drinking badly at the cricket was likely contributory, so I viewed it as a slap on the wrist/wake-up call as to how I need to take care of myself. As is generally the way, a barrage of questions arising from these results only dawned on us after we had left the hospital, so I need to compile another list for next time. Bottom line was we got the nod for cycle 5 a couple of days later.
I can't remember what actually triggered, or whether it was same day, or on the Thursday, but something happened, and both myself and my wife had wobbles. Lots of tears were shed on both sides, most notably over the fact that yet again 1) we are unable to actually plan our lives beyond the next treatment and 2) just what a shitty, shitty state of affairs the whole thing is. This is the first time in my life that something happening to me, that is totally out of my control, and is seriously impacting the lives of those around me. The sense of helplessness is gut-wrenching, and it is difficult to know what to do, indeed, whether there is anything that can be done. Coincidentally, on the Thursday I got a check-in email from my Macmillan counsellor that same day, just asking how I was doing. I don't think she expected the reply, and the subsequent exchange of emails. That said, it did help to unload the angst, and as always I am grateful that organisations like Macmillan exist.
Friday morning I was back at the hospital to start cycle 5. It all went as normal: hornet sting atropine, saline flush, sitting around with a line attached for a few hours, yada, yada, yada. As always, the nurses and support staff were great, and if nothing else, the chemo afforded me a chance to swerve a trip to IKEA. It didn't afford me the chance to swerve a trip to a garden centre on the way home. But I escaped to the café whilst my wife trawled around the plants.
Later that day a friend and her kids came to stay for the weekend. It was late when they got here, so we just made plans for the next day and crashed. On Saturday we had football, errands to run, curry, local music festival, walks along the river etc. All was good. But, there was the realisation that time had quickly passed once more, and the next day my wife was heading away for a few weeks (the MIL had arrived on the Saturday, and was tag-teaming for the duration), and so on Sunday morning I had to say goodbye to her (and our friends).
Later that day I was back in the hospital for pump disconnection. As ever, my presence, fitted as I am with a chemo-port, sparked interest with the nursing team, and not for the first time there was an audience of medical staff to observer the process. After this, we stopped at my BIL's for a barbecue and a catch-up with his family.
In recent days and weeks, my head has been a bit all over the place. I just hope in the coming weeks I can get back on track. It's not easy, that's for sure.